


the ways that you say my name (have me running on and on)

by aalphard



Category: Haikyuu!!
Genre: Alternate Universe - Royalty, Fluff, Hopeful Ending, Knight Miya Atsumu, Late Night Conversations, M/M, Prince Sakusa Kiyoomi, Slow Dancing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 01:08:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,045
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29323722
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aalphard/pseuds/aalphard
Summary: Are you listening?The whispers of the vines under your window, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings once the moon is up in the sky, once the stars spread all the way across the sky and paint a portrait of the freckles kissing his nose. The times their fingers intertwined, the times they’ve shared more than just a blanket. The moon and the stars and the silver butterflies flying over them as the guardians of something they couldn’t quite name yet.Are you still there?Can you keep a secret?or crown prince kiyoomi found freedom in his arms.
Relationships: Miya Atsumu/Sakusa Kiyoomi
Comments: 32
Kudos: 115
Collections: SakuAtsu Fluff Week 2021





	the ways that you say my name (have me running on and on)

**Author's Note:**

> this fic was written for the sakuatsu fluff week day 7 prompts: **royal au** || **"i like who i am when i'm with you"**

Word travels fast. 

In such a vast in land, bountiful kingdom, there was no way it could’ve been any different; information travelled at the speed of light, be it by the fast legs of their messengers or the big, unsupervised talk of the common people running around the markets like ants. There were five treasures total within the kingdom: sun-kissed beauties, beauteous and vibrant music, majestic literature, gold and gems of all shapes and sizes and, of course, the most important of them all, the renowned, dedicated crown prince of fair, porcelain skin and exquisite beauty, of short words and sweet smiles, gently playing with the children who ran up to him in excitement, kneeling down and offering flowers and expensive sweets with a bright smile, a tilt of his head and a hearty laugh.

_ Such a handsome young man _ , the maidens would whisper to each other as people walked by the fairs. _ A pity he’s firm in his decision of refusing marriage. I can only imagine how hard a task it will be to find a consort fitting of his beauty. Mayhaps such a person doesn’t even exist in this world. _ This royal highness, truly a favorite of the people, darling of the heavens, surpassing even an older brother as the best-fitting candidate for the succession to the throne.  _ Truly a romantic _ , the men liked to say in a mocking tone.  _ Waiting for a love that won’t ever come. The crown prince should know better than that. _

And  _ yes _ , words travel fast, a bird chirping by his window, whispering all that his people said about him, all that they wanted, all of their complaints. Sakusa Kiyoomi, a beautiful tale of a man, a noble and gracious crown prince of a gigantic kingdom with riches and tens of thousands of people, used to wish to fulfill the needs and abide by the wishes of his people. Because, he learned, when the people call you a god, then you are nothing else if not a god. They’ll build statues and write poems about your doings, they’ll love and cherish you as they love and cherish their own families; but if the people call you crap, then you are even below that. A ruler is always what the people say they are, it had always been like that.

But Kiyoomi isn’t the crown prince  _ Sakusa Kiyoomi. _

Kiyoomi enjoys tugging on the ivy tendrils by his chamber’s windows and climbing down in secrecy when night falls and the stars are the only witnesses to the treason he chooses to commit. He runs barefoot on the grass, stripped of his title, wearing a thin-lined tunic and blending into the night like a fairy floating in the air. Kiyoomi enjoys the thrill of climbing walls and running after the moon has risen, a ghostly companion as he strolls aimlessly through the shadows.

_ This child’s future will be infinite. _

_ Such exquisite beauty, such remarkable eyes. _

During his wanderings, Kiyoomi dares to think of what life would’ve been had he been born as a mere peasant, living life free to love whoever he wished to love, without ever needing to conform to strict rules and etiquette. The maple wooden doors to the study and the bedchambers, the only places in the world he’s allowed to go alone, the only places he can take off the cloak and the heavy, symbolic crown he’s forced to wear. Once they’re off, it’s almost like the weight of the world has been lifted from his shoulders as a sigh of relief escapes his lips with a single  _ ah. _

His parents take the twin thrones and he has to stand beside them. Kiyoomi and his two siblings, gracefully dressed in burgundy velvet and golden chains, hair carefully styled and faces trained to be unreadable as the messengers come to deliver their messages. Marriage proposals and conflicts, usually, and he has to resist the urge to yell. He never asked to be the heir to the throne, he never asked for gold or gems. The throne, built upon massacre and bloodshed, red like the garments they wear proudly as if saying  _ we conquered _ , as if the weight of the crowns over their heads doesn’t make them sick to their stomachs.

Sakusa Kiyoomi, crown prince, bows ellegantly when the messenger leaves.

Kiyoomi, a human, wants to run after him and beg this stranger to take him with him.

His sister is a beautiful woman, with soft dimples on her cheeks when she smiles and a caring touch as she adjusts his robes before the next messenger comes running in. She’s soon to be married to a neighboring kingdom, to someone she’s never even seen, to someone she’s been writing love letters to without ever speaking to. The foolishness of women, some would call, but Kiyoomi can’t bring himself to think it foolish when he’s been writing poems for the moon, for a lover he won’t ever be able to meet. If only he hadn’t been born as a prince, he supposes. If only he’d been born in the provinces, in a field of plum trees with only the moon and the stars as witnesses, born from and tied to no one.

Perhaps that’s why he enjoys the freedom of the night, when shadows are cast over everything that dares to move, when the breeze brings with it a shuddering wail as he tries to kneel behind a bush so the guards don’t see him roaming alone. When he looks up at the moon and the stars that dance around it, Kiyoomi can almost see the swarm of silver butterflies flying past his eyes, their wings glittering and translucent as they left behind a sparkling bright trail he couldn’t follow.

Lessons with a royal instructor taught him patience more than anything, having to hear the same stories over and over again, hunched over heavy, dusty books and the maps he already knows by heart. He has as much knowledge on history as he does in economics, as much knowledge on languages as he does in combat.  _ Truly a magnificent heir, _ the people would comment,  _ a blessing from the gods. _ Crown prince Sakusa Kiyoomi was everything the kingdom wished for. Human being Kiyoomi just wished he could be free.

“Your Highness,” they whisper as they bow down.

“Your Highness,” they call him in the mornings as they escort him to the dining halls.

“Your Highness,” they say over and over and over again.

Hiding in the shadows, he’s allowed to be not a crown prince, not the savior of the people, but a man. A man with dirt on his face, a man who lies down on the grass and stares at the midnight sky. A man who steals from the kitchen, stuffing all kinds of delicacies down his tunic and running as fast as he can, gulping them all down as his back rests against a tree trunk, as his hair cascades down his face unceremoniously, the tie long forgotten by the intricate nightstand beside his bed.

That’s where he is when he first locks eyes with a mystery of a man.

His hair is abnormally bright, like the sun cascading down with the first bird’s chirp by his window. Kiyoomi can almost see the butterfly’s wing fluttering around, the silvery trail enveloping him in a tight hug as he wanders the castle grounds, a hand over his sword, the other majestically positioned behind his back. He rides a stallion, the elegance of a noble running through his veins, the sure-footed elegance of a dancer ringing in Kiyoomi’s ears when he jumps off, when he looks directly at him, a frown making his whole face twist into a plethora of emotions Kiyoomi can’t quite recognize. And  _ ah, _ this isn’t good.

“Your Highness,” he calls with a majestic bow, hair cascading down over his forehead as he lifts up his head, eyes focused on the dirt sticking to Kiyoomi’s tunic. “What brings you here this late at night?”

Kiyoomi chokes out a sound that couldn’t be called anything other than a whimper.

“Are you hurt?” He asks, already taking the two or three steps necessary to take a proper look at him, already kneeling down and reaching forward, forward, forward; and Kiyoomi scoots away. “Your Highness?”

“I’m okay,” he whispers, trying to convince the guard or himself, he does not know. “I’m okay, I’m okay. I needed the fresh air, that is all.”

A nod.

A smile.

“May I have the honor of escorting you back to your chambers?”

Kiyoomi looks up at him through the curls that fall over his eyes. There are a thousand different shades to him, even under the dim moonlight, even when Kiyoomi’s vision becomes blurry and thick tears start to crawl down his cheeks, all the way to his neck and under his clothes. It tickles, the way they move, the way a sob breaks through and all of a sudden there are long and calloused fingers touching his hair, his face, wiping the tears away and a sweet, soothing voice asking him things he’s not sure he’s ever heard before.  _ Are you okay? Do you need me to do anything? Can I do anything for you? Here, grab my hand. I’ll take you back to your chambers. It’ll be better than staying out here and getting sick. We wouldn’t want that, would we? _

He doesn’t move. “I’m okay,” he says again. “I don’t need an escort.”

“I never said you did,” he replies with a chuckle, a melody Kiyoomi’s never heard before, a melody his heart starts dancing around to without even knowing the right steps, its eyes closed and arms swinging around along to the sigh that follows after. “And I’m not exactly an escort, my prince. Still, I can’t let you wander the castle grounds on your own when it’s already this late. See, the moon is already scurrying away to hide again. There are a thousand dangers in the night, after all, and we wouldn’t want you to be hurt.”

His eyes are sparkling.  _ Such exquisite beauty, such remarkable eyes, _ Kiyoomi recalls. He can’t help but think these words were supposed to be used in poems for him, the man standing tall before him, the bright hair flowing along with the wind as he smiled at Kiyoomi as if they were lifelong friends, head tilted to the side and hand reaching out for him.  _ Ah _ , he thinks,  _ there it is, _ that something cool and cruel that threatens to cut his skin, the crimson ties that bind him to a family, to a life he’s not really sure he wants, the love he gets for being who he is, for playing the part of a perfect prince, of a perfect son, of someone he is  _ not. _ And then him.

There are whole oceans rising in his chest when he opens his mouth, water flowing out and dripping down his chin. He’s drowning in everything he’s kept hidden, in the forbidden feelings his heart has nurtured, in the trembling fingers and silent tears, in the choked sobs and the long baths he soaks in for hours and hours as he tries to get rid of the evidence, as he scrubs his face clean of the red hue his tears leave behind. There is no winning, Kiyoomi finds out, not when he’s been caught like this.

What a funny portrait, the prestigious crown prince thrown over grass and dirt, tears staining his face, hiccups shaking his entire body as he looks up at someone’s gloved hand, at the brightness of the sun itself that shines behind his eyes, the shimmering wings of the butterflies, beautiful and serene, floating above his head like a crown. And  _ ah _ , Kiyoomi almost whimpers, _ how ethereally beautiful he looks with a crown. _

He reaches for him, heat flooding his senses when he allows the guard to take his hand.

“It makes me wonder,” he says once Kiyoomi is up on his feet, once a dark cape is thrown over his shoulders and his touch is gone. “What were you up to in the dark hours, Your Highness, out on your own without a guard to keep you safe?”

“I don’t need to be protected,” Kiyoomi replies simplistically, not once daring to look at the man walking beside him. “I am but a mere human, am I not? Wouldn’t a man desire the freedom of the commoners? Can’t I wander around my own gardens?”

It had been drilled into him as a child, the perfect vocabulary and the thousands of years worth of history, the ancient melodies and the poetry, everything that made the perfect heir to a perfect kingdom. It had been drilled into him,  _ do not show weakness, do not wander on your own, do not allow yourself to be vulnerable, keep yourself away from love, from the mischievous hands that’ll choke you and make you kneel, from the disgraceful aftermath and the comments of the people. _

He laughs. “Yes, I suppose that’s true. I apologize, Your Highness.”

“There is no need for apologies,” Kiyoomi replies with a nod. “Not when the moon is up, not when the whole world is covered in shadows. This is merely a dream, an illusion built on the thousands of thoughts we’ve kept to ourselves during the day. There is no dirt on my vests and your cape is still hanging from your neck, is it not?”

It wasn’t.

But he smiles. “Yes, of course.”

Kiyoomi finds himself mimicking the action as he takes the first step inside. “Good.”

* * *

Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi finds out, is a knight.

During the stillness of the nights, Kiyoomi watches from above as he does his nightly patrols, as he rides his stallion and disappears from view within mere minutes. Clothes in royal red covered by a heavy silver breastplate and sword by his side like a secret he never wanted to unsheath. Hands in fists resting over his thighs and hair flowing with the wind, eyes closed and head tilted to the side during the quietest hours. During the day, as the sun shines brightly over their heads, Kiyoomi watches as he makes his rounds, as he kneels down in front of his parents, in front of him, no trace of a smile on his face, as he trains with the rest of the knights, the clash of swords and groans audible from afar. Miya Atsumu, Kiyoomi finds out, is a great swordsman.

Like a promise without a contract, without a signature, he lunges and blocks attacks, the hunger evident on his face, tongue poking out in concentration as he laughs in the same cocky way that he fights, as if he thinks he’s invincible, as if he believes he’s untouchable. He might be, Kiyoomi thinks when he presses a knee against another knight’s throat, as he uses two swords to point at him, as he laughs and pants and asks “Do you surrender now?”

Like a painting, he stands in front of a lake, his reflection wavering when the first few drops of rain start to fall. He doesn’t move, the water streaming down his face like the tears he’s kept inside, like the blood in his mouth he’s forced to gulp down. Kiyoomi thinks he looks like an illusion, a madman’s fever dream as he stares out the window, the silver butterflies following his every step as if they are his loyal companions. When he looks over his shoulder, Kiyoomi swears their eyes meet, swears Atsumu smiles at him. He doesn’t know why his heart hurts all of a sudden.

And when the nights come, Atsumu is waiting for him.

He greets him with a “Good night, Your Highness.”

He walks beside him and chuckles a “We have an hour before the next rounds.”

He sits down next to him with a “What would the people say?”

Kiyoomi lies down on the grass, staring up at the moon and the stars with expectant eyes, with fidgeting fingers and his stomach twisting around in knots when Atsumu lies down next to him with a sigh. He smells like the glistening dew in the first few hours of the morning, like the fresh-picked berries in the kitchen and the books waiting patiently to be read over Kiyoomi’s desk. He hums, his voice being carried along with the night breeze like the melody of a flute, like the whispers of the night and the music that echoes through the castle walls in the middle of the night. Kiyoomi can’t help but close his eyes, can’t help but feel his muscles relax, his heart following the rhythm of the song enveloping them.

Atsumu looks like a stranger, feels like a stranger as they let the night sky cover them in its invisibility cloak, casting shadows over them and keeping them safe from the guards patrolling the gardens. He whispers a soft “They’re here,” he shushes him and covers his mouth with his hand, glueing him to his chest and breathing heavily against his ear. “Don’t make a sound, my prince.” His hands are stiff and cold and Kiyoomi can swear he’s heard him curse under his breath when footsteps approach, when he has to wrap an arm around Kiyoomi’s waist and drag him towards the dark shadows behind them, their bodies glued to one another, calloused fingers letting go of his mouth but lingering around close to his neck. Kiyoomi almost whimpers, his knees losing their strength, his body falling limp against Atsumu’s chest.

“Are they gone?”

It’s a question whispered against his neck, hot breath and the scent of nightfall surrounding them. It’s Kiyoomi’s gaze travelling up, all the way up to his eyes, to the shadows his eyelashes cast over his cheeks, to the way his lips are sealed together as if bound through a spell. It’s the trembling hands, the promise of a punishment, the way his breath hitches and he almost sobs when the leaves crack, when someone sighs and groans as they stretch out their arms above their heads. “Don’t make a sound,” he whispers right over Kiyoomi’s ears, his arms holding him closer and closer and closer and he can’t see anything other than the darkness surrounding them, the glittering of the wings right in front of his face. 

The ache in his lungs when Atsumu lets go of him is almost unbearable. The water presses at his chest, the turmoil of emotions drowning him in an endless ocean, demanding that he parts his lips.  _ Do not allow yourself to be vulnerable. Keep yourself away from…  _ It presses and presses and presses and Atsumu’s hands are around him again, holding him in place as his eyes follow the figures in silver, as his brain comes up with a plan to escape.

_ I won’t, _ he swore.

“Come,” Atsumu whispers against his skin, hot breath making Kiyoomi’s whole body shiver and for a second Kiyoomi considers letting himself go along with the tides. “We’ll have to go now, I’m afraid. They won’t see us if we walk through the shadows. Here, my prince, hold my hand so you don’t get lost.”

There’s no way he would have.

He’s been doing this for years and years, he knows the gardens and the secret passages like the back of his hand. He knows all the fastest routes and the best times to escape. He knows how to hide in the shadows, how to make himself invisible, how to trick the guards into thinking there’s something hiding all the way across from him.

Still, he takes his hand.

_ I won’t,  _ he swore. And yet.

He opens his mouth. The water rushes in.

He falls.

  
  


* * *

  
  


Are you listening?

The whispers of the vines under your window, the flapping of a butterfly’s wings once the moon is up in the sky, once the stars spread all the way across the sky and paint a portrait of the freckles kissing his nose. The times their fingers intertwined, the times they’ve shared more than just a blanket. The moon and the stars and the silver butterflies flying over them as the guardians of something they couldn’t quite name yet.

Are you still there?

Can you keep a secret?

  
  


* * *

  
  


Robes of silk and golden chains, the clash of crystals and the practiced smiles worn by monsters who lure their prey into a trap of false safety. The weight of a symbolic crown over his head, the crimson and gold covering him from head to toe, the sounds of the laughter and the violin making him sick to his stomach. He hears of betrothals and alliances, a war that one day might come, the slaughter of their enemies over which this land was born, the thousands of names Kiyoomi was supposed to memorize, the thousands of smiles he’s had to fake and  _ oh, look _ , there he is, the man his sister is supposed to marry. He looks like your average noble, like he could be a nice guy, but when he smiles Kiyoomi almost faints. There it is, the lingering threat of a massacre, the lingering desire of conquering, of later succumbing to the weight of his actions.

It’s a scene from a macabre fairytale.

There are people swaying along to the violins, the harps and the piano, the symphony of elegant strings and voices who mimicked the songs of the sirens that lured people into their trap. There are people talking loudly about their own achievements and there are those who stand in a corner trying to pretend they’re not there.  _ Yes,  _ Kiyoomi can’t help but think,  _ if only I could do the same thing. _ He stands behind his father, bowing his head and smiling when he’s told to, nodding and pretending he’s not feeling sick,

His eyes roam around the crowd, around the skirts that sweep the floor, around the chains and the tall glasses of wine, the thunderous laughter and the politics Kiyoomi already knows by heart. And then  _ him _ , standing tall next to the balcony, his eyes hard and set on every detail, following the hands that rest over one’s sword and the ones that reach up to grab yet another glass. Kiyoomi can’t help but wonder if his eyes lingered over him like they linger over the crowd that gathers outside.

_ Darling, have you found someone interesting yet?  _ He wonders what his mother would say if he told her he was foolish enough to let his heart fall victim to love’s mischievous little tricks, if he told her he’d been running away and hiding in the shadows with someone he was never supposed to love. He wonders if she’d even say anything or if she’d stare at him, lips pressed against each other as her eyes unfocused and her delicate hands slowly curling into fists, nails digging into her palms. Or even if she’d smile and ask him to introduce them sometime, if she’d run around and write letters about the marriage that would soon occur. 

_ No, mother, I have not. _

_ Yes, mother, and he’s standing gloriously right in front of us, look. _

_ No, mother, I have not. _

He takes the first step.

“I need to breathe,” he says. “Take me outside.”

It’s an order, but it doesn’t feel like one. Not when Kiyoomi’s voice sounds like golden honey dripping down his chin and Atsumu’s eyes soften when their hands touch.  _ Yes, Your Highness. _ They flee, hand-in-hand, inhaling the guest’s comments and their surprised gasps when they recognize Kiyoomi’s presence, his hair and his eyes, the smile fading from his face once it’s just the two of them roaming the empty castle halls, running down the hundreds of steps on the dozens of stairways, finally breaking free and finding themselves under the moon and alone while the rest of the world drowns in music and alcohol and the pettiness of the noblemen.

Kiyoomi lets his whole body fall limp on the floor, the marble under his body making a shiver climb up his spine as Atsumu stands tall beside him, his eyes carefully examining their surroundings. When hazel eyes roll back to him, Kiyoomi feels himself combust, the golden circlet over his head suddenly burning like the mark of a fallen angel. Atsumu kneels down in front of him like he’ll do once Kiyoomi sits on the throne, he takes his hand in his and the skin burns where his lips touch.

He’s greedy, so greedy.

The piano from the ballroom above their heads falls silent and Kiyoomi thinks he can almost hear the stars when Atsumu looks up at him, his lips still glued to the skin on his hand. Kiyoomi thinks that  _ he could kiss him. _ He could lift up his chin with his finger and kiss him, twisting every atom of who he is in an attempt to make him bend for him in the same way Kiyoomi’s bent over so many times. He wants to drag his thumb over his jaw, over his cheeks, over the soft lips that’ll be red and purple once Kiyoomi’s done with him. He wants and wants and wants. So, so greedy.

“Would you say no if I asked you to dance with me?”

Wide eyes mock him as Atsumu muffles a chuckle, the sound making Kiyoomi crumble down, making his heart stop and his blood dry up. “You are the prince. I would have to be a fool to say no.”

“Would you? Say no, I mean.”

The night dances over them, fading into purples and pinks while the stars slowly fade away. Those who are left serenade, the fluttering wings of a butterfly echoing in Kiyoomi’s ears when Atsumu laughs, when he crawls a bit closer and intertwines their fingers in the way they’ve done oh, so many times before. He  _ could _ kiss him, is what Kiyoomi thinks, opening doors and filling oceans with the uncertainty of loving someone, the thrill of the chase and the ember that burns in the ashes of a feeling people can’t seem to stop writing about. 

“Do you take me as a fool, my prince?”

_ Yes. _

“Drop the title,” Kiyoomi pleads. “Or I might have to treat you as a fool,  _ Miya.” _

There it is, that smile of his that makes Kiyoomi want to undress and let the flames nibble at his flesh, at his very core, at everything he has to give. He pokes his tongue out, licks his lips and Kiyoomi feels like liquid fire is spreading through his veins, his whole body igniting while Atsumu watches with the eyes of a predator, with his teeth one centimeter away from sinking down on him and consuming him whole. What would he say, Kiyoomi wonders, if he told him it’s okay to feast on him?

“Fair enough,  _ Omi.” _

He smiles. “That sounds more like you.”

Hungry fingertips trace patterns on the back of his hands, climbing through his arms and over the velvet that covers his skin. Kiyoomi was once deemed untouchable, the precious crown prince of a prestigious kingdom, the jewel that shouldn’t be touched, the delicate porcelain that had to be polished carefully. And it’s funny, the way he yearns for his touch in the same way the moon brings the tides closer and closer with a silent melody, calling and calling and making it impossible for the ocean to reach its final destination. It’s funny, the way he feels like the world crumbles down over his head when Atsumu finally,  _ finally _ , touches him like he’s the world’s most precious gemstone, like Kiyoomi would eventually break if he wasn’t careful enough. 

He would have.

He doesn’t mind.

“Was that you trying to get me to dance with you?”

Kiyoomi laughs. “Mm, what if it was? Would you say no to your prince?”

“Oh, so now you’re my prince,” he laughs, shakes his head and lets his fingers linger for a few seconds too long over Kiyoomi’s hands, his fingers slowly backing away as his eyes slide up, up, up, until they’re looking right at each other. “I thought you didn’t like dancing. Not in the way you like dueling.”

It’s a scene out of a fairytale, the way Atsumu gets up on his feet and reaches out for Kiyoomi’s hands, the way he smiles and slides one of his arms around his waist, the way their chests touch and the way his voice sounds so, so sweet when he whispers  _ may I have this dance, my prince? _ Kiyoomi closes his eyes and lets Atsumu lead him, lets him hold him close and hum an old love song, lets him whisper words Kiyoomi doesn’t understand and tell him how beautiful he looks under the moonlight. The piano starts again, the people cheering and clinking their glasses as they melt against each other and swirl around like the people in the ballroom, like the butterflies that fill the gardens during the day, like a hummingbird looking for shelter.

He could kiss him, he  _ wants _ to kiss him, but Atsumu’s hands on his back make him unable to move, his muscles frozen as Atsumu sings to him in a way that feels so intimate, so  _ him. _ Ah, so that’s what it feels like, to be swept off your feet and thrown in every direction. That’s what it feels like to love and feel someone’s hands reaching deep inside your chest to grab your heart. It feels like the swift stroke of his thumb over Kiyoomi’s cheeks, like the whispers right under his ear, the brush of his lips over his jaw and the giggle that follows merely a second later.  _ Ticklish, Omi? _

_ Ah. It burns. _

“Thank you.”

It echoes, it rings in his ears and for a split second Kiyoomi almost regrets saying anything. It itches at the back of his throat, all of the words he’s been gulping down, all of the things he’d meant to say during those nights they spent sprawled out on the grass, pointing at the stars and laughing like they were free. Perhaps they were, Kiyoomi can’t help but think, perhaps having each other by their sides was all the freedom they needed. The clash of their swords during the day, the cocky grins when he comes out as the victor,  _ careful, Your Highness, or you might scar your pretty little face;  _ the tenderness of his fingertips brushing against the cuts and bruises that came after,  _ I’m sorry, I should’ve been more careful. _ That and all of the times Kiyoomi was the one to tend to him despite his complaints,  _ you should not be doing this, my prince, I can tend to them on my own.  _ He had wanted to run his fingers along the small scars that he hid under his sleeves, the ones that climbed up his collarbones and the ones he still hadn’t seen. He’d wanted to learn their stories, each and every one of them.

“Mm? What for?”

Kiyoomi almost laughs. 

_ For everything,  _ he wants to say.

“You know me better than anyone else,” he finds himself whispering. “And I like who I am when I’m with you, when there are no rules or worries and we can just  _ be. _ You make me feel like the world isn’t just the riches and politics. You see me as the person behind the crown. To you, I’m not the perfect, spotless person I act out. You see me and like me as I am.”

“There is no need to fake,” Atsumu whispers back as he glues their cheeks together, his breath making Kiyoomi visibly shudder and choke out a gasp. “Not with me, a humble supplicant. You are not the image of the  _ you _ outside these walls, sure, but all praises are the highest of truths when directed at you.”

He smiles.

There is heat climbing up his neck, flooding his cheeks and painting porcelain skin with a reddish hue, the color of the blood inside his veins and the silk he has over his skin. It’s a good thing that Atsumu can’t see him, Kiyoomi thinks, because now he can hide his embarrassment and let his smile disappear along with the clouds that evaporate in the night sky. They both know Atsumu shouldn’t be allowed to take him in his arms, shouldn’t be allowed to dance around him. They both know Kiyoomi shouldn’t let him take his hand, shouldn’t let himself be carried along by strong, safe arms and hear the promise of a love, the feelings of the poets, the promise of a lingering touch, a kiss so sweet it made them forget their own names. They shouldn’t. And yet, there they are, lost in each other’s warmth, lost in everything they are and the things they haven’t yet learned.

“That almost sounds like a confession.”

“It could be one,” Atsumu stops moving, his heart beating loud enough for Kiyoomi to hear, the heat of his skin making his own body flush. “It could be everything you want it to be, my prince. I am sworn to you, body and soul, and you can do with me as you see fit.”

“That’s impossible,” he says, taking a step back and looking straight into loving hazel eyes. It makes his skin crawl, the way his eyelids flutter up and down, the way his lashes cast shadows over his cheeks and how much he looks like an intricate painting, like a relic only Kiyoomi is allowed to touch once the moon is up and they can hide in the shadows. “You wouldn’t obey me if I started to give you orders, would you?”

Atsumu laughs, nodding, the sound echoing all the way inside him, Kiyoomi’s heartstrings vibrating along with the sound, his stomach twisting into thick knots only Atsumu would know how to undo. “You know me too well.”

He does.

He smiles and lets Atsumu rest his chin on his shoulder, their bodies too close, heat making Kiyoomi’s head dizzy and all of a sudden  _ ah, ah, ah,  _ he wants to kiss him. He wants to taste him and make him melt under his touch, wants him to grab him by his waist and glue him to the wall, wants him to devour his neck and everything else he might want to taste.  _ Can I kiss you,  _ he wants to ask,  _ can I make you mine and mark you as such?  _ He doesn’t ask, he doesn’t need to, because suddenly Atsumu is staring up at him again with a lazy smile spreading across his face, one of his hands reaching up to cup his cheek and Kiyoomi can only nuzzle his palm, closing his eyes and waiting for a kiss that doesn’t come.

Instead, “We are a prince and his knight,” he says, his fingers playing with the curls by Kiyoomi’s ears. He whispers right before Kiyoomi’s jaw, his breath sending shivers down his spine, making him gasp and clutch tightly at Atsumu’s vests to keep himself from falling to the floor, his knees weak and unable to support his weight. “But tonight, my prince, let us be something more. Let me hold you, let me taste you and write the poems of the stars on your back. May I?”

Kiyoomi can’t do anything other than gasp and nod furiously, his mouth hanging open in a silent scream as he waits for Atsumu to devour him whole. Atsumu leans closer, his breath tickling his skin, and the air grows heavier and heavier, his heart beating furiously fast, time dripping from their fingertips as he inches closer and closer and closer and  _ ah. _ Say it, he wants to scream, do it and then kiss me, kiss me, kiss me, until the sun is high up in the sky and the story we wrote tonight crumbles down. 

It’s the first brush of soft lips against his that make Kiyoomi whine, the taste of the night and the alcohol he tasted in secrecy. It’s the taste of their wanderings and the reassuring hands around his waist, the swift brush of his tongue along Kiyoomi’s bottom lip and the way they move in sync as if that was a dance they had memorized eons ago.  _ Ha _ , he sighs, he pleads, he whimpers,  _ please, let us have this, let me have him. _

The moon smiles at them.

**Author's Note:**

> you're free to come yell at/with me on [twitter](https://www.twitter.com/aaIphard) (´꒳`)


End file.
